


Ship It

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Flirting, Friends of Red Jenny, Isabela on a ship, Mabari, Merrill won't let her steal the ship, Minor Isabela/Female Hawke - Freeform, ancient Elvhen artifact, awkward!Merrill, but maybe not the ones you'd expect, drunken!MerriBela, except not really, fluff and adventure, graphic blood magic, how exciting!, other DA:2 cameos and mentions, post-rejection flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10408758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Merrill has a brush with some Friends, which leads her to an ancient Elvhen artifact, with a little help from Isabela.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kurow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurow/gifts).



> This fic takes place during Act 2, after The Long Road (Aveline’s quest) and Mirror Image (Merrill’s quest for the Arulin’Holm). It was written for the prompt:  
> I'd love to see Merrill doing something kickass. Maybe besting some thieves in a Kirkwall back alley, encountering a demon and outsmarting it, or escaping a group that Isabela offended aboard a stolen ship? Basically, I want to see her winning/escaping a fight in her own creative just-a-little-flighty kind of way. Blood magic is a bonus (I have no issues with canon-typical violence/blood, and I think the workings of blood magic are really interesting). Merrill/Isabela or a cameo from basically any other DA2 character is a huge bonus.  
> And from their Letter:  
> Things I like:  
> • Witty dialogue & humour  
> • But also introspection and a little angst  
> • Romantic tension, particularly when the characters involved are clueless and/or hesitant about their feelings  
> Things to avoid:  
> • Porn. A little consensual sex is cool, especially when it’s just a part of a larger story, but I’d prefer it not be super super explicit and I’d also prefer to avoid any suggestion of kinks (BDSM, etc.).

> Everything affects everything. We were born, a bunch of things happened, and now we're in a mess with our friends. –Merrill

“Merrill, how are you?”

“Oh! I’m just fine, Nyssa. I, um, and how are you?” Merrill can never tell if someone really wants to know or if they’re making polite conversation, but since she’s not likely to tell anyone how much she misses her clan, she ends up saying the same thing either way.

“I’m fine. Listen, I heard something today.” Ah, so Nyssa is making polite conversation. That’s a relief.

“I’ll bet you did. I’ll bet you hear a lot of things, really, as a tailor.” Merrill glances around the little clothing stand so close to her hovel. Varric had once said something about permits making stands in the Alienage rare, but Merrill doesn’t see anything special. Fabric and dresses on display, worn wooden supports, tatty canvas overhead. A lot of stands look even better in Lowtown. Merrill shifts a little so her bare feet are in a patch of sunlight then back into the shadow as she discovers how hot the stone is today.

“Assistant, actually.”

“What?” Merrill brings her attention back.

“I’m only the assistant,” says Nyssa. She seems worried about being called a tailor, her big hazel-green-blue-grey eyes getting even bigger.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve seen you work. You do the measurements, cut the fabric, sew everything together, and the dress fits perfectly! Isn’t that a tailor? Oh! What if I got it mixed around and a tailor is actually something really insulting? I’m so sorry.”

“No, being a tailor isn’t insulting, but… that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” Nyssa twitches her head, and Merrill wonders what she uses to slick back her reddish-brown hair. It doesn’t move a bit, which must be very handy for work.

“What’d you want to talk about, then?” She doesn’t get impatient with these strange segues. She’s not First to these people, but she still practices being friendly. Maybe these people won’t hate her the way her own Clan does. Former Clan.

“I heard there’s a shipment coming in tomorrow.”

“Yes. There are probably lots of shipments coming in! All the time!”

“Well, this one has a Dalish artifact.”

“Oh, well that’s exciting! But how…” This conversation has suddenly slid from meaningless pleasantries to something Merrill cares about deeply. She thinks as fast as she can. Dalish don’t ship artifacts through shem ports unaccompanied, and that means the Dalish don’t have possession of this one. “Who’s shipping the artifact?”

Nyssa still speaks quietly, but she seems more confident now that Merrill’s caught on. “The artifact is from a Circle and headed to Tevinter.”

“Oh, dear.” Merrill wonders why she doesn’t just say ‘shems have it’ like a lot of the elves here would. Does it have to do with not being a tailor?

“It’s going to the wrong hands.”

“What d’you mean? Are there right hands?”

“Yes. The Dalish should have this, not them.”

“All right. What d’you expect me to do about it?” Merrill wonders if that came out quite the way she meant.

“You could take it back! The shems would misuse it. Give it to your people. Your clan.”

“They’re as much your people as mine.” Merrill considers while Nyssa waves off the admission, blushing for some reason. Even the elves here are strange. “All right. I can’t promise results, but I can try. I need more information. When is it getting here? Oh! Tomorrow, you said. Is it going to be guarded? Goodness! Are there going to be dogs? I quite like dogs, and I don’t want to have to kill them. What it looks like of course, and how big it is, what it does, and is it dangerous? Does it have any distinctive markings? Are you sure it’s Elvhen? The humans make some very convincing counterfeits, you know.” Merrill considers the ways humans copy the ancient Elvhen style to trick each other and the Dalish.

“I don’t have any more information, but I was told to give you this if you accepted.” Nyssa hands Merrill a slip of paper.

“Wait, you didn’t get this information from eavesdropping? Oh! That’s bad, isn’t it, I shouldn’t have accused you of eavesdropping, I’m sorry!”

“No, my Friends gave this to me.” Nyssa ignores what Merrill just _knows_ was an insult so easily, she wonders (again) how often this woman is insulted. “They were hoping I could convince you.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” _At least Nyssa has friends. Maybe…_ “When do I get to meet them?”

Nyssa looks at her. She’s said something wrong again. “You don’t.”

“What? Why not? I could be friends with them, too!” Merrill says, confused.

“Merrill…”

“Oh, I missed something, didn’t I?”

“Just check that location, and you should get the information you need to recover the artifact for our people.”

Merrill nods, grateful that Nyssa is willing to overlook her lack of knowledge. “Thank you, Nyssa, for passing the message.”

“You’re welcome.” Nyssa seems a bit dazed. Maybe she’s getting too much sun? But she has plenty of water, so she should be okay.

Merrill waves and heads inside to read the slip of paper.

_The 3 rd brick to the right of the right pillar in front of the Hanged Man, 2 bricks up, is loose. _

Merrill stops on the way to ask Varric a few questions.

###

“Hey, what’re you doing there?”

It takes Merrill a moment to realize the city guardsman is talking to her. She shoves the cool brick back into place, clutching her letter with her other hand.

“Me? Oh, I’m picking up a message from my Friend,” she tells him, stepping into the hazy sunlight. Merrill is proud she has the right terminology. Varric explained about the Friends of Red Jenny and told her not to worry.

She realizes for the first time the guard chest plate engraving looks a bit like the head of some creature. Or is it a skull? What is that, anyway? Let’s see: eyes… nostrils… teeth…

“A message? Wait, aren’t you Merrill?”

Merrill really looks at the guard’s face before squealing, “Donnic!” and throwing her arms around him. “Oh! I didn’t recognize you at first in that guard uniform.”

Donnic looks terribly confused, all eyebrows and tilted head. “You’ve never seen me in anything else.”

“No, but for some reason I always imagine your face when I’m reading those stories Varric and Isabela write.” Merrill pats his auburn hair and releases him.

“Isabela… writes?”

“Yes, she calls it friend fiction. I probably imagine your face because she uses your name. And Aveline’s. It’s very complimentary, don’t worry!”

“Oh. Ah, good?”

“Yes! Anyway, what are you doing here?”

“I’m on patrol. Merrill, I’m going to have to read that letter.”

“What?! I don’t know much about humans, but I do know it’s rude to read mail! This is a message from my Friend, and they’d probably not appreciate it if you read it! I haven’t even read it yet, and it was written for me. At least, I think it was.”

“I, uh, I see.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s perfectly boring, nothing you’d be interested in at all.” Merrill feels a little bad, but why would Donnic care about Elvhen artifacts? He’s much more interested in law and catching criminals and that sort of thing.

“I’m sure,” Donnic says, smiling slightly. Merrill wonders how long it will be before he talks to Aveline again. Oh! Maybe they’ll get together for another date soon! That would be nice.

“Well, I’ll see you later! It was really nice talking to you, Donnic! Say hi to Aveline for me!” Merrill slips back into the Hanged Man to read her letter.

###

Merrill ducks to one side of the door upstairs before they see her. It’s not that she wants to hide, she just doesn’t like when people shout. She presses her back against the wooden wall and hopes no one threw up here recently. The letter, now read, is in her pouch.

“Fenris, you were being an asshole!” Isabela might be harsh sometimes, but Merrill can remember at least one time recently that Fenris was an asshole. If she’s talking about after their recent fight with the varterrel when they fetched the Arulin’Holm… well, Merrill can’t disagree.

“And Merrill is a blood mage!” he says, as if that justifies it. Oh! Which confirms her guess! He was on about her being a monster or something after Pol ran!

Isabela scoffs. “What is she supposed to do? Turn herself over to the templars to be made Tranquil?”

“It’s a thought,” he says in the tone that makes it hard for Merrill to decide whether to consider Fenris’ words carefully or punch him in the face.

Merrill can hear the glare in Isabela’s voice as she says, “Sexy or not, I will stab you.”

“Or she could stop using blood magic. Perhaps not deal with demons anymore.” Fenris is a touch defensive, at least. Score one for Isabela. Merrill decides not to count Fenris’ points. He can do that himself, if he really wants.

“Fenris, when you love someone, you don’t hold past mistakes against them!”

Fenris scoffs. “Because she’s so likely to change her ways? It’s a good thing I don’t love her, then.”

“Well, I do!” Isabela blurts. Merrill can tell it’s a blurt because it’s said too quickly and very loudly.

There’s a pause where Merrill can imagine the two of them staring at each other, and she wonders whose mouth is hanging open. Merrill’s certainly is. She resists the urge to check.

“My mistake.” His voice is loaded with sympathy. As if the worst fate ever is to love a blood mage. He pauses again. Perhaps he’s looking for signs of blood control on Isabela? But there aren’t any! At least as far as Merrill knows. He leaves.

“Shit!” Isabela hisses as Merrill hides even better so Fenris doesn’t see her on his way out. It’s not that she doesn’t want him to see her; he just seemed so angry with her. “Shit!” Isabela repeats.

Merrill steels her back and walks in, ready to brave the consequences for ‘eavesdropping.’ “I’m sorry,” she starts. “I didn’t mean to overhear. You were kind of… loud.”

Isabela spins, panicking, then softens and raises her arms for a hug. “It’s all right, kitten.”

“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” Merrill says against her cheek.

Isabela actually laughs at that. “No, he doesn’t. And he probably doesn’t like me much now, either.” She pulls back and regards Merrill’s expression. “But it’s not your fault. You remind him of the worst times in his life. I think most mages do.”

“That’s really too bad. Some mages are quite nice. He could learn a lot about elves from me, if he wanted.”

“I don’t think he cares about elves.”

“No, I don’t think he does, either,” Merrill says sadly and releases Isabela. Have they held on a little too long?

Somehow Isabela always smells the way she describes the sea: wild and free and exhilarating.

“Isabela? Is it true, what you said? Do you… love me?”

“Oh, kitten. Do I really have to answer that?”

Merrill shakes her head. “I’m sorry, then, about the other day. You really are lovely, but I thought you were only looking for a bit of fun.”

“I was. But that doesn’t mean I don’t… care.” Isabela looks frozen in the middle of rolling her eyes. Or maybe there’s a butterfly on the ceiling. Merrill decides not to check.

“I don’t understand. How… can you do that? You said yesterday what you do is ‘skin deep.’ How is that possible with someone you love?”

“I’m not sure that would work with us. It… was a risk. One I wanted to take.” Isabela shrugs, and there’s strain on her low-cut shirt.

“Oh. And Marian?” Merrill nods at the red band around Isabela’s arm. It looks nice against her beautiful umber skin, but red is the color of Hawke’s house.

“Kitten…”

“I need to know.” But she probably knows. Hawke is so amazing and beautiful, how could anyone _not_ love her? Something twists in Merrill’s gut.

“Hawke wasn’t skin deep either, as it turned out. But there are… complications.”

There’s a pinch between Merrill’s eyebrows. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, you made your position clear beforehand. By the time Hawke gave her conditions, I was… in too deep.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Merrill hugs her again. That’s the right thing to do, right? It’s not too weird to reject an offer for sex and hug a week later? They’re friends, and Isabela seems all right, so it must be fine.

“For what, kitten?” Isabela asks, stroking her hair. “You haven’t done anything.”

“I’m sorry I can’t take away the hurt. I’m not much of a healer, you know.” Merrill wonders if a relationship would be so bad if Isabela would… always come back. The thought sort of glows in her chest.

“I’m not sure magic would help,” Isabela says, continuing to stroke her hair. It’s awfully nice. “What were you coming to see me for, anyway?”

###

“Oh! Yes!” Merrill straightens suddenly, and Isabela can’t pet her lovely black hair anymore. She suppresses a sigh. _If only rejection made people less attractive._ “I found something. Well, I didn’t find it, but I’m pretty sure it’s something!”

This gets Isabela’s attention. “Is it a book?”

“No, it’s an artifact, but it’s elven!” Merrill is talking about elven things. Of course she is. Shit. Do Dalish have books? Apparently they do, because Merrill doesn’t even notice her slip. “But there’s a problem, and I need your help. Someone else has it. A human, I mean. If an elf had it, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You don’t need my help.” Isabela flicks her hand aside. “You can retrieve an artifact on your own.” _Why is this girl always underestimating herself?_

“But Isabela, I don’t know how to plan these things!”

“Do we hang out with the same Hawke?”

“No! We’re not doing this Hawke’s way! She runs in and kills everything. I don’t want to kill everything. There are going to be dogs.”

_That does explain it._

“You could throw them some steaks,” Isabela suggests, leaning against the wall of her little room.

“Oo, that’s a good idea! See, this is why I need your help! You think of these things. But I don’t think steaks will work if I attack their people. Dogs are very loyal, you know.” Merrill is so adorable when she rambles. Isabela wants to eat her up. She tries hard not to think, _Preferably with whipped cream on top._ She thinks it anyway.

She smiles, in spite of herself. “I know, kitten.”

“I need someone who can help me get in, find the right shipment, and get out without hurting anyone. You know ships, and you’ve stolen things. So you’re perfect! But this isn’t stealing things. We’ll be recovering stolen property, so maybe it’s not perfect.”

“No, kitten, it’s still perfect. But why do you have to be there? This might be easier on my own.”

“They didn’t give me a description. I will recognize it when I see it. Well, I hope so, anyway.”

Isabela decides not to ask who ‘they’ are. Better not to know. “You said find the right shipment. Do you have a shipment number and the ship name? I could take the whole thing.” And sell off the pieces that aren’t elven artifacts.

“I’m not going to steal a whole shipment!” Merrill objects. Loudly.

Isabela glances around. They’re in the Hanged Man, and there’s no one outside her door. Even if they were, no one here cares anyway. Hopefully.

“Why not? Makes it harder for them to tell what you were after.”

“People might be depending on that shipment! There might be bread! Well, not bread, that would get soggy, wouldn’t it? But food!”

“You think this shipment contains an ancient elven artifact… and food?”

“It could! Couldn’t it? There isn’t some sort of law, is there?”

“No, kitten, there isn’t a law, it’s just… very unlikely, is all.”

“But you understand what I mean, don’t you? People might need the other things.”

“By that reasoning, people might need this artifact.”

“Not as much as the Dalish need it,” Merrill says, her huge green eyes serious in her pale pinkish face.

“And your logic is perfect.” Isabela smiles, idly examining the green Dalish tattoos around those eyes, as though she didn’t have them memorized. “So, if I find something in this shipment that I need more than the people who have it, I can… recover it?”

“Isabela! You don’t even know what’s in there!”

“No, but once I see the thing, I might need the thing. Like you’ll know when you see the artifact. I promise not to take any food.” Isabela stands on both feet again and raises her right hand in oath.

“Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

As always, Isabela wonders if Merrill is truly buying the bullshit, or if she realizes this is a way for her to repay Isabela for her help. Either way, the answer is the same.

“It’s a deal.” Isabela shakes Merrill’s hand, ignoring the way the contact trickles up her arm pleasantly.

###

“I wonder if those pillars ever held up a ceiling,” Merrill says.

“What?” Isabela whispers.

“You know. The three pillars around that dock. But why would you want a ceiling over a dock? You might get a really tall ship and break something!” Merrill pats her pouch again to make sure her secret weapon is still in place. She worries the dogs will smell it until she realizes that’s unlikely with the stench of fish and cabbages in this warehouse, with its open dock. She wonders if they ever have problems when it storms.

“Merrill, please stop talking. It’s distracting, and the guards are right there,” Isabela grumbles, crouching next to her behind some convenient crates. The crate they want is on the lone ship at the dock.

Mercenary guards pace the docks. The note was right, they have dogs. They’re mabari, and none of them are on leashes or in kennels. Isabela studies the ship before she throws a longing glance at the sea.

“Sorry,” Merrill responds, trying to distract her from that longing. “I’m just so nervous. Are you nervous? I’ve never done anything like this before.” _Yes, focus on the job and maybe she won’t think about living at sea again._

“I was in Orlais with Hawke. We did something a bit like this.”

“Really? I assumed Hawke killed everything in Orlais, like she always does.” Merrill looks eagerly at Isabela.

“Blame Tallis. But we don’t exactly have time for a story here, Merrill.”

“Oh, good point,” she says, patting her pouch again and glancing at the mercenaries. They’re going up the stairs to the storerooms. “You’ll have to tell me later.”

“All right, kitten, ready?” Isabela asks. Merrill nods then follows Isabela as fast as she can down the ramp to the dock and onto the ship while the guards check the store rooms.  

Isabela catches her as she stumbles a bit on the gangway and again on the deck. “Landlubber,” she says, smiling fondly. “Pay attention to how the boat moves, not the dock.” That helps a little, but it’s even easier to stand once they get below deck, where Merrill feels a familiar queasiness.

The way people talk about a ship’s hold, you’d think it’s a room, but it’s really a part of the ship, open to the rest. A small red cloth is next to a group of crates each marked ‘#26983.’ She checks against her note, and it’s the right shipment. Merrill remembers what Isabela said about not making too much noise and decides not to ask her if she put the cloth there.

Merrill gets out the crowbar Varric loaned her. She opens crates in the group, digging through sawdust and looking for the artifact while Isabela prowls around, restless. Merrill finds paintings (small ones), stone figurines (Ferelden ones), necklaces (shiny ones), paintings (large ones), and potatoes (also Ferelden); but no artifacts (Elvhen ones).

“Yet,” she mumbles.

“Mabari,” Isabela hisses, hopping on a crate and drawing her blades as the dogs snuff down the stairs.

“Don’t hurt them!” Merrill hisses back, wondering how the huge dogs can navigate the narrow, steep stairs.

The dogs wander away from the staircase, now growling at her a little. Merrill opens the secret-weapon pouch and pulls out steaks, tossing them and petting the dogs as they eat. She knows enough to stay away from their food, but one licks the steak juice off her hand. “They’re so smooth!” She whispers. “Feel their fur, Isabela.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” But she smiles, and Merrill decides she’s done her good deed for the day. Not that she tracks that anymore, but if she did, she could check today off her list.

Turning back to the crates, Merrill finally uncovers something the size and shape of a Wallop ball or a grapefruit, but with interesting grooves around in a swirling pattern. It definitely looks Elvhen but doesn’t seem magical. Maybe it’s inactive, though. She really hopes it’ll be worth all the trouble. She digs it out of the crate’s sawdust as a small group of mercenary guards clamber suddenly down the stairs, calling for their dogs. They pull up short. Perhaps they’re surprised to see a Dalish on a ship, surrounded by feasting dogs and a half-dozen open crates and tucking something into her pouch.

Isabela is nowhere in sight, but that was the plan.

“Oh, hello!” Merrill says. “This isn’t what it looks like. Actually, it’s probably exactly what it looks like, but I’d really rather not hurt you, so let’s all just pretend it’s not.”

They don’t listen. Why don’t they ever listen? Did she say it wrong again? She’d really rather not kill anyone today. They shout for backup, draw their weapons, and charge. One has a bow, though her aim might be off since the ship keeps moving. Merrill sighs, pulls out a clean knife, and cuts her own arm as the ship rolls, casting the spell that causes the blood in her veins to sting like salt in a wound. The cut is a little deeper than she intended. This spell pulls the blood around her, even her own, back into her body, but it consumes blood to power anything else she casts. Time slows, or maybe just her awareness of time. She can’t move any faster, so she seems to slow, too, but she becomes aware of all of the blood in the room. Her own blood, of course, stinging through her veins and spilling and turning into raw power. The excited blood in the dogs as they tear into the steaks. (Oddly, the steaks themselves don’t register even though they weren’t cooked.) The blood of the mercenaries, angry, then tinged with fear as they realize she’s casting _blood magic_. OooOOooo. She’s even aware of Isabela’s blood, though her exact location is obscured again. She’s calm, confidently moving into position for the strike, and that calms Merrill, too. She has tried to do this without killing anyone, but maybe she can avoid killing the dogs if they stay happy.

As always, there’s a temptation to reach out to the dogs and the enemies and even Isabela and turn all of that blood into pure power. It would be so easy. She could do anything with that much power: _make_ her clan like her, fix her ancient mirror, _take over Thedas if she wanted_. It isn’t worth the price. It’s a trick, anyway. She ignores those whispers and concentrates on the task at hand.

She weaves the first spell. Her heightened perception helps here. She can weave the blood carefully, using each ruby drop and making the magic sing. Well, not really, her magic doesn’t sing like Bartrand’s red lyrium or any kind of lyrium actually, but it’s beautiful. The spell is a work of art, but not one you can see or hear. You can feel it, I guess, but only if it hits you. To Merrill, untouched, it’s still beautiful. She weaves her pain into something beautiful.

She casts this spell on the blood of one of the smugglers to cause him to go back up the narrow stairs and tell any more guards, “It’s nothing. False alarm. They’ll take care of the dogs. Hey, are you up for cards?” (Hawke never wants her to use this because ‘I want to know where the wasp is.’) That taken care of, Merrill concentrates on the last three, who probably assume their companion is getting reinforcements.

She casts Tempest, careful to avoid the dogs. They’d planned ahead: Isabela has plenty of anti-lightening goop, so she will be safe enough. The air in the hold grows expectant, and ozone smells sharp and clean as the first lightning strikes. The bright white flashes are startling, but this will break down resistance from anyone who gets close enough to attack, especially if they’re wearing metal. If they don’t want to get zapped, they shouldn’t come after her. She ducks behind a stack of crates to avoid arrows.

 _Where is Isabela?_ She appears as Merrill peeks out, stabbing deep with both blades into the back of a particularly shifty-looking mercenary with long knives. Blood clatters on the boards of the ship and caresses Isabela’s clothes and skin.

“Kill the mage!” another guard shouts. “That will stop the storm!” Shouty’s struck by lightning, and Isabela reappears behind her to finish her off. Blood runs in rivulets like a flash flood and pools on the floor. Shifty is already down. Shouty had the bow, so she doesn’t have to worry about arrows after all.

A mercenary finally reaches her: Shieldy. Hmm. Doesn’t quite ring right, does it? Merrill smiles sweetly and casts Wrath of the Elvhen. The land itself—no, the ship in this case—attacks the guard, and she whacks him on the head with her staff to knock him out. No blood.

“I did try to warn you, you know,” Merrill says. She ends Tempest so anyone alive won’t get struck by lightning. Again. She also stops the first spell, and it’s a little disappointing to lose the awareness of all of that beautiful blood. All that power.

The mabari look up from their nearly-finished meal.

She’ll need more steak next time.

“Well done, kitten,” Isabela says, plucking a necklace from the crate of shiny jewelry.

“Thank you. Not so bad, yourself. But, Isabela, you don’t need a necklace. The one you have is quite lovely.” It’s gold and covers her collar bones and neck. Where would another one go?

“That’s sweet of you, kitten, but a girl can always use another necklace, especially one this _expensive_. Besides, being here has me itchy. It’s either the necklace or the ship.”

“The necklace,” Merrill says instantly and then smiles.

Isabela smiles back but with pain behind her eyes again. “They have more guards. Let’s get out of here before the rest catch up.”

Isabela grabs her hand (to steady her on the rocking ship). They sneak out of the warehouse before the guards can spot them, still holding hands and suppressing giggles. At least, Merrill is suppressing giggles.

###

The mud around Sundermount stinks, just a little. Rotting green things with a hint of rotting flesh. Merrill breaths deep, appreciating the sun glowing through the haze over the mountain today. The scent brings back memories from four years ago, before things went wrong, but also childhood memories of a slightly different clan. As she approaches the Dalish campsite, Merrill considers the changes: people have died or left, new people have joined, and some people have changed. Like Marethari.

“I’m only here to visit,” Merrill says quickly when she sees her and then bites her tongue to hold it. That was rude.

“I’m sorry to hear that, da’len. You are welcome back whenever you choose.”

The stares of her former clanmates as she entered the camp had told her otherwise, but what is she going to do? Accuse the Keeper of lying? Better to get to business.

“Keeper, I’ve brought an artifact, recovered from the shemlen.”

“From the shemlen? Was that wise? Will they come looking for it?”

“They might. You should probably move the Clan soon.”

“Humph. That is my decision alone, as you well know.”

“Of course, Keeper.” Merrill hands Marethari the sphere. “I entrust this into your care,” she adds formally.

Marethari examines the sphere. “What does it do, da’len?”

“I don’t know, but you are the best suited to learn or pass it to another clan. This sphere should be with the Clans, not the shemlen.”

“I’d rather have your assistance with it.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to do without my help,” Merrill snaps. _How can the Keeper always use up my patience so quickly?_ “I’m busy with the mirror right now. And don’t get started about how the mirror is evil. I’ve cleansed it, so it’s not tainted anymore.”

Marethari sighs. “Of course, da’len. We will take good care of this artifact.”

There’s nothing left to say. Merrill nods to her former Keeper and leaves the camp.

###

“I can’t believe you went through all that trouble, just to hand your ball to someone else!” Isabela swings her mug in the direction of Sundermount. Probably. Hard to tell from inside the Hanged Man, really.

“Not just ‘someone else,’ Isabela. I gave it to the Keeper. I had no use for it, so its rightful place is with the Clans.” Are her words slurring? Merrill is pretty sure her words are slurring.

“After she nearly got us killed with that varterral for your aroo-thingie, you should have made her fight the Arishok or something!”

“What?” Merrill giggles. “No! Could you imagine? Marethari would have to run away from that man _so much_! He has a _huge_ sword! And an axe! She’s the _Keeper_. It’s been years since she’s fought anything more dangerous than a human. Decades, maybe! Even then, she had the support of our hunters. No, no no no nooo…”

“You’re so good,” Isabela says, setting her empty mug down and putting her elbow next to it. “How are you so good?”

“Me?” Merrill can feel a creeping blush and hopes Isabela doesn’t notice. “No, not me. I’m just… me. I’m nothing, not even First anymore. Not like you. You’ve seen more, you’ve done more. Like I said earlier…” Merrill tries to stop her tongue, but it rattles on without her. “…you’re perfect. You’ve got a good heart, too, and that’s amazing because of everything you’ve been through. What I imagine you’ve been through, anyway.” Merrill pauses. “Isabela?”

She’s leaning on her hand, elbow still on the table. Her eyes are closed. At the sound of her name, she startles then slides down to rest a cheek against her arm. She snores, drawing laughter from a table away.

Merrill giggles drunkenly, moving the mug away from her face. “You can make a fool of yourself all you want, vhenan. You’re still perfect.” She boops her on the nose (though it takes three tries) and finishes her own ale slowly, watching Isabela sleep.


End file.
